Chapter 3
Chapter Three
CIARA
The sound of the gunshot still rings in my ears as I grab Mila by the hand and haul her toward the exit. “Mila, we need to move, now.”
Seamus Sullivan is down, so whoever just fired that gun means business.
I try to navigate through the crowd of screaming guests.
She allows me to pull her behind me. “Was someone shot?”
I don’t reply.
The lingering taste of champagne in my mouth is like acid as I try not to look at the scene in the center of the room, where Ronan Sullivan is crouched over his father as blood soaks into the carpet, his roars of fury sending the room into chaos.
It’s no coincidence that a shot was fired in a room full of the most powerful people in the city. Someone was clearly trying to send a message to the Sullivans, but I have no idea who or why, and I’m not willing to wait around to find out.
“We need to get out of here,” I tighten my grip on Mila’s hand as we get sucked into the bottleneck of guests trying to leave.
People press against my back, forcing us forward until we reach the street outside the Vue.
The air is bitterly cold as it hits my face, but it’s welcome after being inside the stuffy ballroom.
Sirens wail in the distance, but I don’t plan to hang around to find out what happens to Seamus. Any one of these guests could have been the culprit, and who’s to say I won’t be next?
“Let’s go.” I drag Mila away from the crowd, my body moving on instinct.
Her heels scrape against the concrete as we make our way down the street. “What the hell just happened? Was that...was that really a fucking gunshot?”
“Yes.” I furiously scan the street, looking for a cab with its light on, but it seems as if every other person has the same idea as me. “Fuck. All these rich people and half of them don’t bring a car?”
We’re just going to have to keep going on foot.
“Ciara, slow down!” Mila struggles to keep up with me, but I only speed up as the sound of that gunshot plays on repeat in my mind like a broken record.
One moment, I was throwing verbal daggers at Ronan Sullivan, and the next, his father was on the floor with a bullet in his skull.
No warning.
No second chances.
I swallow a sob as my vision starts to blur.
I knew I should never have gone to that party, and I can’t help but view this entire night as some kind of bad omen.
The shot might have been fired at the Sullivans, but it serves as a message to all of us.
No one is safe.
Mila finally catches up to me. “Did you see who it was?”
“Yes,” I choke as the entire scene plays out in my mind.
“Who was it?”
“Seamus Sullivan.”
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I was.”
I finally spot a cab down the street. I throw my arm into the air and start furiously waving to try and get the driver’s attention.
“Do you think he’ll make it?”
“He was shot in the head, so I doubt it.”
Mila looks like she’s about to vomit. “Shit.”
Taking a shot at Seamus Sullivan isn’t just reckless. It’s suicide.
That party was crawling with his allies, so whoever pulled the trigger had nerves of steel. Either that or a death wish.
Mila frowns as she shakes her head. “I don’t get it. How did they get away? That room was packed.”
The cab screeches to a stop beside us, and I quickly usher Mila into the back seat before climbing in beside her.
The driver glances at us in the mirror. “Where to?”
I spit out Mila’s address before turning my attention to her. “Only if that’s okay?”
She squeezes my hand and offers me a reassuring smile. “It’s more than okay.”
The drive to Mila’s is no more than thirty minutes, but it feels like hours.
I stare out the window as the city lights blur as we drive past. My reflection in the glass looks pale and haunted, a far cry from the girl I saw in the mirror when I was getting ready only a few hours ago.
The countless glasses of champagne on an empty stomach are only adding to my nausea, so the moment we arrive outside Mila’s building, I’m practically climbing out of the cab while it’s still moving just to get some air.
I dig around in my clutch for some money and toss a few crumpled bills at the driver through the window. “Keep the change.”
Not that I can afford to be dropping fifty bucks on a cab ride, but I’m too wound up to care.
I follow Mila up the front steps of her building then inside.
Her building always smells of dust and wood polish, but I’ve come to find it comforting, though that might have something to do with the fact that I spend more time at Mila’s than I do my own place.
My feet are burning by the time we reach the third floor, so the second Mila unlocks her door and I step inside, I kick off my shoes and limp across her tiny studio apartment then collapse onto the couch.
“Jesus, Ciara.” Mila kicks off her own shoes and heads for the liquor cabinet. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
I don’t respond.
I can’t.
Because all I can see is blood.
Not Seamus Sullivan’s, but my father’s.
I close my eyes and lean back against the couch, trying to breathe as the memories of that fated day come flooding back.
The desk chair was facing the window, just like it always was. My father couldn’t stand staring at a wall while he worked.
He used to say his job was depressing enough as it was, so why make it worse?
When I close my eyes, I’m right back in that moment.
It was early spring, so the sun was streaming in through the window, bringing the study to life in shades of yellow and gold. My father had been locked away in his study all night, the door still closed when I came home from Mila’s in the early hours of the morning.
Eventually, when it got to mid-morning, I decided to interrupt him by taking him a cup of coffee in the hopes of getting the lecture about being out past curfew over and done with.
But the lecture never came, and my father never did drink his coffee.
My footsteps against the hardwood floor as I headed up the stairs, his name on my lips as I called out to him, and the sound of the door clicking open when I got no response still haunt me.
I think some part of me knew what I was going to find. Maybe that’s why, when I spun the chair around and saw my father was missing half of his skull, I didn’t scream.
Even when I finally took a breath and the metallic smell of the blood hit my nose, I still didn’t scream. All I did was set his coffee down on the desk as if he was going to still drink it.
A female voice cuts through my memories. “It’s cheap stuff, but I think it will still do the trick.”
I blink out of my silent nightmare to find Mila crossing over to me, carrying two glasses of whiskey.
She hands one to me without saying another word, and I down half of it in one go. I barely taste it, barely feel the burn as it slides down my throat.
It’s as if my entire body is numb. But at some point, the reality of what happened tonight is going to hit me like a freight train.
“I don’t even know what to say.” Mila curls up on the couch beside me. “Are you okay?”
I nod, even though it’s a lie. I’m not okay, and I haven’t been for a long time. But thankfully, Mila doesn’t push for me to talk. Instead, she grabs the remote off the arm of the couch and turns on the news.
We sit in silence, drinking our whiskey and wearing our evening dresses, as the screen floods with footage of flashing ambulance lights and frantic bystanders.
brEAKING NEWS: NOTORIOUS MOB BOSS SEAMUS SULLIVAN SHOT AT PROMINENT MAFIA ENGAGEMENT PARTY.
My stomach turns as I read the headline scrolling on loop across the bottom of the screen.
Mia hugs her legs. “Shit, this isn’t good.”
I can’t seem to peel my eyes away from the TV as live footage of the outside of the Vue is playing.
There are at least half a dozen police cars, and the street has been taped off and cleared.
“That depends on what happens to Seamus.”
His death will be nothing more than an invitation to start a war. It’s no secret that men like Seamus Sullivan have enemies, but he also has allies in every corner of the city. It’s not as simple as a one-and-done hit.
If Seamus Sullivan dies, it will set off a chain reaction that won’t end until the entire city is up in flames.
Mila’s eyes turn to me. “Do you think he’ll make it?”
My eyes remain glued to the TV as I sip on my whiskey. I don’t offer her an answer.
The Sullivans are the reason I have no father, and part of me wants Ronan Sullivan to know what it feels like to have the blood of someone you love stain your hands forever.
But when I think of how much it hurt, I can’t bring myself to wish that upon him. He might have done it to me, but I’m not him. I’m not that person.
I lean back against the couch and stare up at the ceiling, sinking into a sense of exhaustion that comes from a lifetime of looking over my shoulder. No amount of sleep seems to offer me any reprieve, but that might be because my dreams are plagued by death.
Mila reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You should get some sleep.”
“Uh huh…” I don’t open my eyes.
“Do you want to bunk with me?”
“I’m good here.”
Mila gets up, and then a blanket is draped over me.
“I’ll mute the TV.” Her footsteps disappear through the sliding door that separates her bedroom from the rest of the apartment.
I peel open my eyes and stare at the muted TV for hours, watching the same footage of the scene outside the Vue loop over and over until the screen starts to blur and my eyelids grow heavy again.
But even when my eyes finally close, Ronan’s face doesn’t fade from my mind.
His smirk taunts me, daring me to come closer, which makes me hate him even more.
One day, I’ll get close enough to ruin him, and he won’t even see it coming.